Fool of Madness
by Esuerc Marcellus Voltimand
Summary: Once the Thane of Lord Sheogorath, Lour'ek ran from the Shivering Isles. Soon, a dark organisation from her past resurfaces, their motives clandestine and mysterious. She finds help in a most bizarre Jester, Cicero, and the powerful Dragonborn.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello. My name is Esuerc Marcellus Voltimand. Long has it been since I was last active on this site. Much has changed._

_Regardless, this is the story of Lour'ek, a small, miniscule wood elf with a chip on her shoulder the size of Tamriel. She is neither Dovahkiin or the original Champion of Cyrodiil, only the Thane of Sheogorath... or was, in any case.  
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**The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim**

**Fool of Madness: Chapter 1**

The dark mahogany stool squealed quietly under the added weight of its new arrival, the humid air of the Bannered Mare thick with the scent of smoke from the nearby hearth. Lour'ek, a miniscule and diminutive half-elf even amongst her fellow elves and humans, sat silently, tiredly at the bar.

For someone of her terribly small stature climbing the mountainous trails and rocky crags, the sloping hillsides and rushing rivers proved to be most difficult in her profession- courier for the Jarls of Skyrim. She fully understood she did not stand alone in such an endeavour, but the idea of having another at her side didn't sit well in the pit of her stomach.

A single pint greeted her downcast stare, thrown to her from the barmaid situated behind the counter. Many times the half-elf found herself in such a position, worn and fatigued after a journey from hold to hold, from Whiterun to Solitude, from Riften to Windhelm, from Dawnstar to Falkreath, and everywhere in between. Upon this night, the ride back from Markarth had been a draining one.

More than once her brigade, a group of fellow travelers, farmers, and messengers, had been surprised, ambushed, and cornered by the men of the wilds, an almost subhuman culture- dark and morbid- the Forsworn. Half their group had been taken, slain at the mangled and jagged weapons of the savages, the deluded Bretons of High Rock. And yet, they managed an escape time and time again, finally seeking refuge in the hold due east, Whiterun, where Lour'ek soon found herself as she did after every delivery.

Two steins sat at her splayed hands, drained of their contents, her lids dropped and darkened.

In her tired state, she stared lazily at the far wall as she turned in her seat, the fire dancing this way and that, guided by an unseen force, a mad puppet master. Golden and amber, orange and volatile, Lour'ek let her mind wander, let her thoughts drift and her eyes close.

Laughter resounded through the ancient throne room in her mind, the aged, dual-coloured stone walls adorned with tapestries and sconces echoing the hearty chuckles of the Daedric God, the Prince of Madness, Lord of the Never-There…

Lord Sheogorath.

The Asylum, as the Lour'ek would jokingly yet aptly call the palace and most of what was known as the Shivering Isles, was home to the delirium and madness of Sheogorath and his subjects. For one-hundred and seventy years, countless days and hours or servitude blurring into the next, flew before the half-elf in fogged flashes - like a painting dashed away by an unforgiving rain on a spring day- misty and veiled.

Ale, mead, wine, and the like did nothing to fade the burnt-in images from her consciousness.

Memories of lounging upon the throne of the Daedric Prince when he ventured out and about amongst his subjects, knowing fully well to be caught in such a position would be most perilous. Of Skooma and Elytra, of the Mad Court over which Sheogorath held sway.

_The spot nearby to the throne sat empty, void of the chamberlain who so frequently stood still as stone upon the rug- the fine regality of the fabric worn slightly under his tailored shoes. Instead, Haskill, ever loyal to his Lord, followed him about like a melancholy shadow, fully aware of the antics the half breed held in his absence. _

In the miasma only fine mead could offer, Lour'ek looked back upon one such occasion with diluted disdain, her hand placed against her cheek so that her lips puckered strangely, drawn down to her chin so her skin pulled in an awkward grimace, the buzz of the tavern a distant reminder of the present.

_Snoozing upon any other object would have been met with amusement from Lord Sheogorath. _

_Atop a stall in the Mania district, up high on the strangely gnarled trees dotting the island, even on the table of his Duke of Mania, Thadon, as Lour'ek was found before in times previous, drunk off her arse and belligerent. _

_But on this day, when her Lord returned from a leisurely stroll through his New Sheoth, she was met with a reaction far less than humoured. _

_Stretched out across the length of the throne, legs thrown haphazardly over one of the finely carved arms, Lour'ek snored with a slight twitch to her cheek, her foot tapping ever so sporadically as though deep in a dream. Sheogorath leaned heavily on his cane and gazed down at her meager form with amber-ebon eyes, his cat-slit pupils dilating somewhat. His nostrils flared with a huff, his back gone straight as a board, a glance sent to his chamberlain as though his eyes deceived him. Haskill blinked slowly, as a turtle would- if one were willing to stare at a turtle for long enough to find out the precise time- and sighed with a slight rise to his chest._

_The MadGod twiddled his gloved fingers over the handle of his cane, the eyeball decoration rotating beneath his fingers at the strange prodding. His thin lips dipped into a frown hidden away by his finely groomed beard, creases on his cheeks and lines under the darkened recesses of his eyes. _

_He lifted a hand with a sudden grin and snapped loudly, the small figure of Lour'ek disappearing from the throne in an instant. Haskill watched on, forever unaffected by the antics of his Lord, and yet ever understanding the madness behind them._

_Normally, such a treat was reserved only for the most heinous offenders of the MadGod, and on that day he was feeling particularly lenient. Instead of a fatal drop from the highest point in the Realm- what was guessed to be upwards of nearly one thousand feet or more- Lour'ek appeared at the apex of the throne room, suspended for but a moment. Like a rock, she dropped from her drift in the air to the floor of the Throne Room, her mismatched, male-contoured glass armour nearly shattering at the impact against the stone. She groaned heavily at the pain across her back, signals itching up her spine like the claws of a Grummite tearing at soft skin._

_Lour'ek's eyes opened through the jolts up and down her back and neck and stared up at the disinterested face of Haskill, his hands held firmly behind his back, his eyebrow raised in a "I-warned-you" look. Her half-idled orbs found their way to the towering frame of Sheogorath, who hovered over her on his cane, one ankle crossed over his shin, a bemused grin on his devilish features. "Well now, Little Elf? Sleepin' on the job? In my throne, no less?" He questioned in a heavily accented croon. _

_She went to sit up, to pop the cramps in her back, but he stopped her instantly. His cane snapped against the stone floor beside her head, pinned in the gap between her left ear and the small chain pierced from tip to tip, leaning down ever heavier on his walking stick to glare at her. "Not so fast, missy." He cooed- his eyes, like that of a Saber Cat, trained on her intently._

_The Half-elf grinned nervously, her eyes, rounded like that of her imperial blood, creased tightly. The chain pulled taut against the elongated point on her ear- her Bosmer ancestry- as Sheogorath scraped his cane against the rough surface of the floor, keeping her attention trained solely on him and not the small glimmers and sparkles swimming across her eyes._

"_Ye ain't gettin' off that easily this time, Lour'ek…"_

Lour'ek snorted as reality crashed back before her, her third stein having fallen from her hand and to the floor of the Bannered Mare, clanking loudly. She rubbed rigorously at her eyes and cheeks in an attempt to stay awake, her hand instinctively wrapped at the chain held on her ear a moment later. The fire from the hearth burned hotly at her back, even through the thick, aged glass of her armour- the very same from nearly two-hundred years prior, crafted by her father in the Imperial City in Cyrodiil.

Not enough mead, it seemed, was available to drown her memories, both good and bad. She remembered fondly the Hero of Kvatch as she stared across the Bannered Mare to a table situated against the wood wall, two Companions from Jorrvaskr whom she recognised sitting idle and happy in their drinks. The laughter and drunken merriment brought about a recollection to her short time in Cloud Ruler Temple- her attempts to become a blade for the would-be emperor, Martin Septim, all for naught.

And yet the Hero saw something in her despite her failure at impressing Jauffre and Baurus, an inkling of determination, a true desire to serve the Empire. Their friendship soon grew, deep and caring, argumentative yet content- a true bond. But their ties were shattered as Lour'ek disappeared beyond the door to the Isles, in a last ditch attempt to create a true name for herself. For several months Lour'ek worked under the bizarre and twisted guidance of Lord Sheogorath, becoming his eventual Thane and quasi advisor, much to the disdain of the existing Chamberlain.

But the Champion refused to leave her in light of the time that passed, finding themselves in the Manic and Demented realms of the Shivering Isles after the events of the Oblivion Crisis. The Half-Elf greeted the new-comer with more than a hint of remembrance as they drew nearer to the clapping and jovial MadGod. She remembered calling out to them, boisterous and shrill, Haskill all the more pained at the squeal in his ear.

Her friend had returned.

Or had they?

Sheogorath molded the Hero, her friend, into his image, twisted them into his crazed mindset with the sole intention that they were to become a future replacement for the MadGod in the upcoming Greymarch. And still Lour'ek followed her Lord to the end, transferring her servitude over to the new Sheogorath and former friend as the true MadGod disappeared in the form of Jyggalag, their mind warped and broken in a state of eternal mania and madness, a contorted, knotty bramble of incoherent thoughts and actions.

The Pact with the original Sheogorath was explained via Haskill to the new Champion. To become the Thane of Sheogorath, his messenger, and secondary Chamberlain aside from Haskill was in exchange for prolonged life- immortality against time and time only, not against the most grievous of injuries. Should she be struck down their pact would become null and void.

Lour'ek's fear of an early death was aggravated by her half-blood, unaware of how long she would truly live with the traits of both Human and Elf, more of a curse than a blessing.

Sheogorath had been most welcoming to her predicament.

But unknown to all who resided in the Court- Haskill, the New Sheogorath, and the diminutive Half-Elf- the Daedric Prince vanished, "vanquished" himself purposefully to a well-earned vacation, whisking away to another realm. A small lie, the MadGod told himself through his Cheshire grin as he would watch them from afar on special occasions, ensuring his land was in well-laid hands.

One-hundred and sixty-seven years passed under the rule of the Pseudo-Sheo, and Lour'ek grew increasingly anxious with the approach of war in Cyrodiil, a scent wafting through the air like that of burnt flesh and ash.

Whispers drifted over the Isles of a new foe, exceedingly powerful, nearly as ancient as the long vanished Ayleid. She feared an enemy's approach into the Imperial Province, that of the Aldmeri Dominion, the Thalmor. The Gate into the Fringe would stand an open portal to their onslaught should they choose to continue their tirade into the realm of the MadGod, eliminating any chance of her every returning to the lands she truly called home. She dared not think that the portal would be shut, sealed, eliminated.

No, Lour'ek had made her mind.

_Behind her, she would leave the Isles._

Lour'ek was hauled unceremoniously from the floor of the Bannered Mare, her glass armour clinking loudly against itself as she was dragged toward the door, the light of the morning sun filtering through the half-opened entrance. The two Companions from what seemed moments previous but was in actuality the night prior carried her unceremoniously down the inlaid steps of the tavern to the cobbled streets of Whiterun, their tall, rugged Nord forms amusingly large in comparison to her own.

"This is the third time this month, Lour'ek." One of them warned, and for a moment the half-elf looked between the two men as though she were seeing double, her green eyes crossed and idled. The Twins, she remembered, as Dragonsreach's steps came into view.

Farkas and Vilkas.

"Really, boys, this is completely—" Vilkas righted her as his brother nearly ran the woman into a bench, the slurs coming from the Half-Elf a most hilarious distraction, "—unnecessary. I'm perfectly capable of walking."

"Hardly." Vilkas scolded, hoisting her up higher to keep the toes of her worn leather boots from dragging on the steps leading upward to the Jarl's abode. "We could smell the ale on you all the way from the other side of the Inn. And you smell like you haven't taken a bath in days."

"Look who's talkin'." She slurred, righting herself in their hold as they approached the large wooden doors to Dragonsreach, several guards posted outside as per usual. "And besides… I just… returned from Markarth. Had a package to deliver… decided to head straight to the Inn when I got back. I'm far more tired than drunk, I can—" Her face turned a dark green in an instant and Vilkas dropped her without a word, his brother holding fast.

Lour'ek deposited what was left of the contents of her stomach into the shallow mote under the bridge spanning the gap to Dragonsreach, Farkas keeping a firm hand on the pauldron on her right shoulder. "I'm much better, I can assure you."

Farkas pushed her forward gently so that she began to walk on her own accord across the bridge, the wood slats noisily giving way under her weight. "I'm sure Balgruuf is looking for you. Best not to keep him waiting." He advised the half-elf, his voice much softer than that of his brother's.

Lour'ek wobbled for a moment before she finally collected herself, her balance more than slightly off-kilter. She adjusted the loosely belted dirk at her side and sent the twins one final glance before she turned toward the door. "We should drink together sometime, you guys… It'll be a party."

Farkas smiled somewhat at the invitation, but stopped when Vilkas sent him a look. "Get going, elf. And make sure to wash behind those ears of yours."

"And your mouth." Vilkas added for good measure.

Lour'ek laughed quietly as the opened the door to Dragonsreach, disappearing within.


	2. Damnedest Wagon Wheel

_I mean to have this up last week, but I was busy up in the mountains visiting my mother. I really appreciate your review, Blixey._

_ I like to hear others' insight._

**The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim**

**Fool of Madness: Chapter 2**

**Damnedest Wagon Wheel**

The thick, furred cloak was pulled taut against Lour'ek's frame as tumultuous gales raged across the rolling plains outside the walls of Whiterun, the clouds painted across the sky like a spilled painter's water, the droplets full and fat against the moist dirt of the earth. She slipped here or there, the mud catching the soles of her patched leather boots, her toes frigid and numb from the water that soaked through the worn material. A soft noise sounded from the pauldrons of her armour, the rain creating small streams and shimmers against the earthy green of the glass.

A quaint farmhouse stood in the distance against the dismal gray of the sky, the thatch roof adorning its top in need of repair, the windows in need of cleaning, and the fence righted to stand vertical once more. A single rooster, their feathers frayed and splotched, scurried at the approach of the Half-Elf, a cacophonous caw thrown to the wind.

Lour'ek pulled her hood ever farther down her brow to protect her reddened and running nose, her cheeks wind burned to the point she looked as though she would bleed that very moment. Still, she struggled to traverse the almost insurmountable slope from the farmhouse, the satchel beneath her cloak heavier than she remembered it upon her departure.

A most uninviting stream of water trickled down the incline of the hillside away from the farmstead, the earth fully drenched, the clouds engulfing the lands and distant mountains undoubtedly wholesale. The mud beneath Lour'ek's boots shifted, pulled away by some unseen force as she would like to think- some cruel trick brought about by a most distraught MadGod- and caused her to slip.

Upon realizing one was falling toward the earth, plummeting at an astounding rate due to the rather unfortunate forecast and generally bad luck, a normal being would brace themselves for impact. Very much unorthodox and far from what could possibly be considered normal by any stretch of the imagination Lour'ek merely accepted her fate and planted her face two inches deep into the dirt path. With a groan, guttural and ragged, she choked out a curse, her hand at her face to wipe away her newly acquired "make-up".

Stained and bruised, Lour'ek stood to full height, laughable as it was, and trod her way down the slope, her hands clenched in a deep-rooted ire, mud caked to her once finely crafted fur cloak. Irate, she threw back her cloak and struggled once back on her feet, the rain at last coming to a standstill. She could only sigh at the shifts in weather only Skyrim experienced, and forced herself to smile sullenly at the light flurries that appeared in place of the rain.

Flakes of snow huddled on her shoulders, her glass pauldrons fogged from the rapid change in weather. Her breath hung around her and billowed out into the sky, dissipating nearly as quickly as it appeared. Lour'ek looked up through a half-idled stare to the road beyond, a wagon loudly making its way through the thick mud and stone.

As it approached its wheels caught each and every crag, every puddle laid strewn on the dirt road, and as fate would have it the puddle situated directly in front of her. With an exasperated sigh Lour'ek pulled her lips inward into a scowl at the cold wash of water on her trousers and cuirass, the wagon driver having passed her without so much as a glance.

Lour'ek immediately thought to how amused Lord Sheogorath would be at her unfortunate predicament, at every ill-starred event that day. Whether it be how her morning began, with her awakened by Jarl Balgruuf's steward in reference to an important message to be delivered to Loreius Farm. Or the bitter disagreement she and Vilkas shared over her visit with Farkas, and her _supposed_ flirtation with the much larger of the twins (as it ended with them literally butting heads with one another). Or that her porridge had been rather cold that morning, and didn't taste particularly anything like what porridge was described to be- which should have been a welcome change if she had been in her right mind.

_Oftentimes, whenever the situation would present itself, Sheogorath would laugh heartily at her expression and attempt to mimic it, all to bring a smile to her face- a far rarer event since she'd moved to the stony and frigid plains of Skyrim. She missed him dearly, on occasion, despite their bizarre relationship of Thane and Daedric Prince. _

_Cheese, as amusing as the thought of it was, was most difficult to look at with a straight face, as it reminded her of more lucid times. One such occasion sat fresh in the seat of her mind, of the day they flooded Haskill's room with wheels upon wheels of cheese. _

_Cheese wheels, cheese slices, and even a queer food called cheese cake (which Sheogorath swore was made of cheese despite Lour'ek's insistence it wasn't) filled his room to the ceiling, stacked haphazardly at the doorway, and even found stashed away in his dresser and chest of drawers. _

_Haskill merely complemented his Lord and Thane at their "ingenious" practical joke, and set about removing each wheel, by hand, from his room._

A raucous crash tore her from her reverie, the MadGod found far too often on her mind than she would have liked or admitted.

The wagon less than fifty feet down the road hitched at a large puddle, the dip in the road unseen beneath the clouded water. The driver squealed wildly at the unexpected lurch, the horse drawing his wagon bucking and neighing at the added dead weight of the handicapped vehicle.

Lour'ek chuckled slightly at the instant "justice" of it all, whether or not the driver realised what they'd done to her less than a minute before. But the hilarity wore off within a few moments as the driver's head poked out from behind the front of the stranded wagon, the colossal crate strapped neatly in the back his item of interest.

Lour'ek trotted warily to the wagon's side and spied the damage done to the right front wheel, the wheel itself now on the embankment of the road amongst the grass and rocks. The driver appeared atop the crate within the confines of his wagon, his hands tangled in the tightly knotted ropes securing his luggage in place. Flurries fell about his head and stuck to his nose despite his best effort to swat them away, his eyes falling to the woman now at the roadside.

"You there! Fair elf!" He cried out, repositioning the two-horned jester hat upon his head, his copper hair protruding in tufts this way and that.

Lour'ek looked to him, undeterred by his comical and eccentric outward appearance. His garb was most unusual, his over-shirt titian in colour, his pants sanguine and patched at the knees, his entire outfit resembling that of an old world fool or jester- unseen in Skyrim for at least a century as far as she was concerned.

"Mornin'." She drawled out to his jovial salutation, but ended with a croak as she tried earnestly to sound excited.

He watched her curiously as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, her simple dirk plastered at the side of her soaked pants. "Might I ask for assistance, Little Elf?" He inquired and leaned over the top of the wagon, his hand extended out as though to give her a firm shake. "Cicero, the Fool of Hearts!" he introduced loudly, his eyes wide and bright. "And you?"

Instead, she stared at his hand, his ebon glove covered in dirt and grime, the golden details around the cuff faded and frayed.

"Lour'ek." She informed, and moved forward to further inspect the damage done to his wagon. "And nothing personal, but I don't care much for handshakes. The last person I shared one with hit me with a shock spell._ He thought it was hilarious._"

The leather of Cicero's gloves creaked as he clenched his fingers to his palm, not amused by her reaction to his polite mannerisms. "Of course…" he muttered.

He eyed her suspiciously from his perch; his behind positioned on the wooden-slat side of the wagon, his pointed boots knocking against the side beneath him. He watched as she bent low to inspect the axel under the wagon itself, unsure of the damage done and if the wagon could be fixed at all. His lips twitched as she said nothing further for over a minute, knowing fully well his gaze could be felt, like a flame left alight in a wall sconce- the wall unaffected, but an involuntary victim to a terrible burn.

A scurrying noise could be heard, and soon she reappeared from underneath, "You should speak to Loreius." Lour'ek suggested with a point over her shoulder to the farmhouse on the hill, "He's got a wagon or two himself, and I bet he could fix yours in a couple of hours. I'm sure he'll help you out."

Cicero's downtrodden countenance brightened considerably, "Could you go with Cicero?" He questioned in the third person perspective, a trait Lour'ek found somewhat delightfully different, as comical as it was.

When she looked back, many of her conversations involving such ways of speaking included, usually, large, muscle lined Nords who spoke in a similar fashion… though their impediment was more out of lack of intelligence rather than having a quirk.

Denizens of both Mania and Dementia possessed their own unique quirks, and so Cicero's eccentricities were welcomed and largely accepted.

Cicero placed a hand to the center of his chest, his other gripped around the handle of his ebony dagger, "If he goes alone, Loreius might refuse to help the poor Fool of Hearts! He's not been treated with much kindness since his arrival."

With a hop, Cicero slipped from the wagon's side, fully prepared to meet the ground with a plop. But the tails of his over-shirt billowed behind him, becoming stuck against the splintered wood, hanging him upside-down like a field-dressed deer. The rolling hills and distant tundra of Skyrim met his gaze from a different scope, his vision black for a moment as hands brought him to a sudden stop.

The blood rushed from his toes to his cheeks as his vision cleared, only to find that Lour'ek held him in place, her hands on his shoulders with more than a bit of hesitancy, his hat on the ground at her feet. A whine escaped his lips at the sight of mud on his hat, newly formed stains soaked into the already blotched fabric. Copper orbs traveled up to the face of the Half-Elf, her lips drawn with his added weight. A grin stretched across his pale smile, coy and playful, as if he meant to put himself into his current position. "Hello…" He drawled, his smile still wide and gaily innocent.

"Hi, Cicero." Was her reply. Dry, it was the only response found on the tip of her tongue. "Just… hold on." Past her lips a sigh escaped to the wind, Cicero left below to hang whilst she clambered topside to release him.

Cicero tilted his chin to his collar bone, his neck craned uncomfortably to peer up the slope of his chest to watch Lour'ek scramble about the top of the wagon, her muddied boots dug into the moist wood of the large crate therein. "Careful!" He warned, though his tone of voice suggested he did not speak of her safety, but of the safety of his parcel.

A loud rip sounded from the tail of Cicero's over shirt as Lour'ek pulled upward, her face contorted in exertion. With a shriek far too amusing to the Half-Elf the Fool fell, head first, to the ground. He rolled over himself with a grunt until at last he sat upright, his hands pressed firmly to his temples, his teeth gnashed and his face flushed. His auburn hair laid a mess, his eyes veiled under a furrowed brow.

"You okay down there?" Lour'ek asked, her interest in his well-being feigned at best.

She sat her chin against the palm of her hand, her lips pursed in a hidden amusement.

Cicero let his mind settle after the painful jostling, the redness from his face diminishing to a pale blush. Lour'ek leapt from the wagon down beside him, amused as he sat in a shallow puddle, snow gathered on his auburn locks in a messy pile. "Get out of that water before your bottom gets frozen in it." She laughed, extending her hand for him to take- a kind gesture from the Half-Elf not normally given freely.

Fortune and luck had not been on Cicero's side that day it seemed, from his venture in Cyrodiil to the plains of the Nord homeland. Far colder than any place he'd been, in terms of both company and environment, Cicero stood in hesitation with the help of Lour'ek, his pants and shirt laden with water and slightly ice bitten.

His teeth chattered noisily as he and the Half-Elf strode up the hillside, his arms wrapped about his chest, his hands frigid as he rubbed away at his sleeves to keep warm. Lour'ek noticed his hunched form- curled into himself from the biting cold- and pulled off her cloak. Handing the furs to him, he gladly accepted without trepidation.

In the eyes of the Fool of Hearts such kindness seemed uncommon for the Half-Elf, her face stern, eyes narrowed at was most likely nothing in particular- except for maybe the cold weather. And yet, there was a hidden warmth he'd seen for but a moment as she draped her cloak around his shoulders in a motherly fashion, a flash of sincerity. But as soon as it appeared it vanished, the stoop of the farmhouse at their toes.

Thrice Lour'ek knocked upon Loreius' door, a loud resounding echo heard within the farmstead. The inhabitants scrambled to the doorway and were unsurprised by her appearance, though the older gentleman eyed Cicero suspiciously, the bear-fur cloak dirtied and the fool's clothes terribly similar.

Mouth drawn and head high Loreius drew forth a smile, a joke at his tongue. "Didn't I just see you ten minutes ago?" He asked her, a letter still clasped in his hand.

"Yes." She answered shortly, her mouth pulled into a feigned smile, her head tilted in the direction of Cicero. Loreius closed the door firmly behind him, away from the view of his wife at the hearth, goose pimples gathering at the exposed flesh of his arms. "I was wondering, Loreius, if you could, perhaps, do me a favour?"

"And what, exactly, were you thinking?" He pried, his eyes stuck firmly to the Fool of Hearts, not seen minutes before with the Half-Elf.

"Cicero's wagon, just on the road!" Cicero began, cutting between the two, "It's stuck! He can't just leave her- it! - there! You must fix it. _You must!_" Slyly, he corrected himself before they noticed his wording, his body tense and tone terse.

The farmer's eyes shifted from the Half-Elf to Cicero, and back again, his lips puckered at the proposition. He ignored the strange comment from the Fool, and followed his line of sight. "And I take it the wagon blocking the path is the one in question?" He pointed yonder to the crippled wagon, the horse loose in the elongated grass. "Yours?" He questioned Cicero, to which the fool nodded happily, his hat fallen down over his eyes in excitement.

Pivoted on one leg, Loreius crossed his arms skeptically, "Look, Lour'ek, you and I have had business before. But do you even know this man?"

Lour'ek cut him off and stepped forward to put an arm over his shoulder. She led him away from Cicero for a moment, the Fool's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

He stood straight, tall against Lour'ek's five foot frame. "He could-he could be transporting drugs, Skooma, in that crate of his! I see it, sitting on the wagon… He could—"

"Look, Loreius, I know." She admitted once out of earshot of Cicero, who stood yards away with a sour look in their direction. "Think about it, though. You may not have seen it, but he's not right." She tapped at the side of her head for emphasis, "The way he speaks," she peered back over her shoulder to watch the Fool for a moment, "he's dressed as a damned fool, and he's got an 'oh-so-mysterious' crate in his wagon. Do you really want that hanging around? On your farm? _Near your wife?_"

Loreius' head shot up at the truth of her words, his brows knitted together. Heavy breaths passed his parted lips, the thought of an unfortunate event befalling his beloved wife abhorrent. "Yes… yes, alright." He proclaimed and let loose a heavy sigh, "But you owe me later." He added, rubbing together his thumb and index fingers.

"Fine, fine. Just get him up on his way, and we'll worry about the money later."

Meanwhile, Cicero stood patiently at the stoop, his eyes trained intently on the back of the Half-Elf and Loreius. He watched the curvature of her slender neck as she went to speak privately with the farmer, images of his knife, held tightly in his hand under the confines of the cloak, traipsing through his mind.

But the duo turned, the air about them cordial and light, the images of sanguine disappearing from Cicero's mind. Lour'ek grinned warmly at him as they approached, "Loreius has agreed to fix your wagon. It shouldn't take more than a few hours, maybe."

Cicero's face brightened, his cheeks drawn in an elated smile. "Ooh, wonderful!" he cried and burst into a clapping fit, dancing around the stoop happily. "The Little Elf helped poor Cicero! He'll never forget this."

Loreius cringed outwardly, Lour'ek patting his shoulder in silent apology.

She owed him a deep purse after this.

The Fool went to unclasp the cloak from his shoulders but Lour'ek stopped him with the raise of her hand. "Just keep it. I've got another back in Whiterun." She went to add, albeit in a whisper, "Or, at least, Farkas does…"

Cicero jumped forward and lifted her from the ground in a firm hug, her pauldrons dug into his shoulders and her cuirass pressed hard into his chest. He spun her around in a circle several times, her arms pinned uncomfortably at her sides, before he finally released her. Her vision blurred and spun before clearing at last, her cheeks a bright, involuntary pink. "We're even if you— never mind." She went to say, but stopped herself short at Cicero's unending smile.

Lour'ek cracked a lopsided smirk herself, the Fool's enthusiasm contagious.

-

**Next Chapter:**

**Journey to Falkreath**


	3. Journey to Falkreath

I have to thank **Heiwako** and **Cowardice** for their reviews! Your keep me going!

_I do not own the Elder Scrolls series, as it is property of Bethesda. I do, however, own Lour'ek._

**The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim**

**Fool of Madness: Chapter 3**

**Journey to Falkreath**

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After a trip to her cluttered room beneath the quarters of the Jarl himself, the Half-Elf walked out into the open throne room with heavier steps. The bag at her side sat stuffed at her hip with essentials- several potions, whether they be for fatigue or health (she didn't care much for the arcane arts and wasn't terribly proficient in the many schools to begin with), and several loaves of bread she'd procured from one of Balgruuf's tables without permission.

The dry air of Balgruuf's Palace, Dragonsreach, was only aggravated by the overly long fire pit stretched down the entirety of his throne room, the coldness of the adjoining rooms a welcome relief. Lour'ek hungrily eyed the table sets, lavish amounts of freshly cooked meats and cheeses, soft breads, and recently picked vegetables displayed on silver platters, pitchers of ale and bottles of wine dotted every few feet as a welcome invitation.

Instead of going about her business, she stood before Jarl Balgruuf, who, at that moment, dictated an overly winded and complimentary letter to the Jarl of Falkreath, a hold no more than half a day's hike southwest of Whiterun.

Stark differences were evident between the two holds and the Jarls themselves, Falkreath a dank, cold-winded forest, dark and ancient, and Whiterun a brightened, stone-wall-guarded fortress upon the hills and plains.

Proventus Avenicci, Balgruuf's steward, wrote upon a piece of yellowed parchment his Jarl's dictation, as he'd been doing for the past several minutes, his hand cramped painfully around his quill and his flourishes of ink ever beautiful despite the agony.

At last, the Jarl concluded his letter, an audible sigh brushing past the lips of both Avenicci and his messenger, the Half-Elf's stomach letting loose a boisterous growl of hunger at the scents that surrounded her. Ever since early that morning, with the terrible preparation of her porridge to the engrossing encounter with the "questionable-of-sanity" Cicero she had yet to fill her stomach properly. She longed to be sated, to taste of the mixing flavours of wine and cheese, of breads and game. But she continued to stand at attention patiently, her back sore and her heels worn into the pads of her boots.

Wax was slowly dripped on the letter in a methodical fashion, and sealed with the imprint of Balgruuf's signet ring, a clear and present warning against tamper. Avenicci rolled his eyes as he handed off the letter to the patient Half-Elf, her eyes never turning to meet his as she continually lusted over a nearby roasted Pheasant, her lips drawn to hold at bay her salivation.

"Deliver that letter to the Jarl of Falkreath." Jarl Balgruuf began as he noted her incessant want of the delicacies, "And ride fast, _Elf_."

Lour'ek's mouth nearly hinged open at his words like a storm shutter at the birth of spring, but her face kept firm, her green eyes traveling up to the Jarl's handsome visage. "Of course, my Jarl." She bowed, her hand placed squarely at her heart, the chain on her left ear fallen to clink against her cheek, tickling and cold.

The Half-Elf failed to mention a terrible inconsistency with the Jarl's request. To "ride fast" implied she had a mighty steed, swift and powerful to brave the icy wastes, or another form of available transportation. Unfortunately, Lour'ek was plagued with the thought of worry. She no longer possessed a horse, neither Stallion, Gelding, nor Mare, as her last one met an infelicitous fate with a crevice in the west toward Markarth, ushered in and down to its demise by the damnable Forsworn Tribals. And the carriages parked outside of each city demanded ridiculous sums for their services, gold which Lour'ek did not possess.

Lour'ek turned on her heel quietly, her head lowered to mask the anxiety on her features, and left the Palace casually, her steps measured and calculated. With the echo, however, of the closing doors behind her she stampeded down the stone steps, her hands wrung into her shortly cropped hair, her heart a war drum in her chest.

A long road ahead awaited her, her feet her only method of transit.

At this revelation she cursed loudly through the open streets, past several children who then repeated the words instantly. She raced to her destination on the opposite side of the city: the large, barred gates facing the surrounding plains. A guard attempted to follow her to order a citation for her excessive profanity, but she only ran ahead, claiming she was the Messenger of the Jarl and could not be stopped.

Her side bag slapped at her hip painfully with every step, and without coming to a stop she lowered it from her shoulder so the strap encircled her, the satchel at her backside. She pulled the strap up and over her head, and draped it at the back of her neck, the bag now a fully-fledged backpack for ease of use.

Once outside the gate, Lour'ek careened down the cobbled path, the scattered pebbles underfoot stabbing at her soles.

A large, familiar Nord lumbered slowly up the path, his gait long and powerful. His surly brother walked beside him, his walk similar in fashion with the absence of the heaviness his brother had, his footsteps still plodding somewhat. Farkas smiled widely at the Half-Elf's approach, his twin a mask of stoicism.

Lour'ek came to a laggard stop at the twins, her hand brushing the tuft of hair of her short bangs away from her eyes.

"Hey there, Big Guy." She smiled, abashed at Farkas' playful grin. "Vilkas." She added curtly once she looked to the other man. He nodded his head at her but took to looking toward the plains moments later, his armour dull and unpolished. "I can't stick around to talk; important message for the Jarl of Falkreath."

"You be careful, Lour'ek." Farkas warned, flicking at her elongated ear. In retaliation, she freely punched at his arm, the muscle beneath firm and powerful, her light laughter in contrast to his deep chuckle. Vilkas growled at the two, disinterested in the duo's covert flirtation.

"I know, I know. Don't worry." She patted at the dirk at her hip, running down the length of her thigh. A "toothpick" Vilkas would call it, his weapon mighty and broad, its blade nearly as long as Lour'ek was tall.

Farkas sniffed at the air curiously, Lour'ek's head quirking to the side at his behaviour. "That's my cloak." He stated matter-of-factly, his hand against the soft fur coiled at her shoulders. She blushed at his realization and pulled the fur around her tightly.

"I'm sorry. I should have asked first." Farkas shook his head, his ebon hair a mess of tangles, and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't worry about it. Just don't set it on fire." He implored, his hand tightening.

The gentler of the twins went to hug her, to scoop her from the ground by several feet in a tight embrace, but she continued past him swiftly. Having already been picked from the ground by an eccentric Jester that morning, her quota was quite full.

Farkas watched her skid down the slope toward the stables, the ground still patched with puddles from the rainfall earlier, her feet catching her for a moment. He snorted in amusement at her erratic pace until he received a slap at his arm, his twin urging him to continue on back to their home in Jorrvaskr.

Lour'ek continued to run, her face the colour of a newly born red rose, her neck hot and damp, sweat evident at her brow, even the light weight of her glass cuirass heavier with her building fatigue. At last, she could take no more and slowed herself to a brisk walk, her legs alight with spasmodic twitches and her chest ablaze with a fiery pain.

Her pace slowed, Lour'ek munched loudly on a loaf of bread, the scent savoury and warm, her stomach at last sated. She adjusted the fur cloak over her shoulders as night began to descend upon her, the sky an amalgam of orange and pink hues, the Secunda moon visible on the horizon just behind the jagged tips of the westward mountains. The cold slowly seeped through her armour and underclothes, a bite at her skin as the snow began to fall again, steadily from the heavens. She sighed and huddled up as her breath escaped before her in a puff, "Probably should have waited until tomorrow morning to head out…" she scolded herself.

The ground frozen under her boots, she still dodged the hardened puddles from that morning, the ice a murky, mirror-like pool.

The sound of hooves echoed in the distance, down the road to Lour'ek's back, a slow, galumphing vibration coursing through the ground in suit. She veered from the path to allow the approaching wagon to pass, this time far from any potential dips or partially frozen puddles, and paused on a hillside, her breath somewhat ragged from fatigue.

The wagon continued by slowly, the crate strapped securely in the back precious and invaluable.

"Cicero!" Lour'ek called out to the driver, a familiar fur cloak donning their shoulders.

The horse whinnied loudly as its reins pulled taut against its mouth, the wagon idle in the middle of the road. Cicero turned in his seat at the call of his name, his hand at his hat in the light gale that blew that evening. "Little Elf, is that you?" He cried, standing from his seat excitedly, his hand supporting his frame as he leaned over the back of his bench.

Lour'ek jogged to the side of his wagon hopefully, the chain in her ear bouncing with each step. "Are you heading toward Falkreath by any chance?" She questioned at his inquisitive gaze, her eyes hopeful.

"Indeed, he is!" He cooed loudly, "And Cicero certainly owes the Little Elf after she helped him." Cicero grinned widely and extended a gloved hand to her, but nearly drew back when he remembered her words from before.

Even against the dirt and grime of his glove Lour'ek grabbed hold tightly, and was swiftly hoisted up into the cab of the wagon. She sat down instantly, a heavy sigh on her breath. "Thank you." She allowed, the words foreign on her tongue.

"You're lucky you said something. I wouldn't have recognised you in the dark." Cicero admitted as he urged forward his steep, a loud crack of his reins all that was needed to move once again. "What's the Little Elf doing in Falkreath, if Cicero might ask?" he asked, his amber orbs on the road ahead.

"A message to deliver." She replied curtly, comforted by the slow rumble of the wagon. "What about you? Your 'mother', right?" The suspicious in her voice was not missed, but Cicero said nothing, a mental strike board keeping tally of any and all times the Half-Elf questioned him or his manners critically.

But Cicero nodded to her question, looking to her at his side. He found she did not look to him for an answer, and beheld the landscape to the west, the fur draped around her cheeks to hide her collar- as though she knew of his thoughts, of the knife at his belt, the cold blade pressed to the pale flesh of her neck. He watched the chain in her ear sway for a moment, her cheeks a bright red and her nose similar.

"Yes." He affirmed flatly, "Mother."

Lour'ek turned back to him, only to find his eyes upon her, his expression unreadable. "What?" Came an inquiry at his stare, to which he turned away, clearing his throat nervously. He only shook his head at her question and set his eyes about the road once more.

The air around them grew wintry, the snow heavier than mere minutes before, the sky a light gray as flakes stormed down. Every so often, amongst the welcome quiet of the ride, Cicero dared a glance from the corner of his eye to the Half-Elf beside him. She paid him no mind, her eyes weary and dark; her head leaned against the side of the cab to close her eyes for a few minutes.

The silence continued on for nearly half an hour, wolves heard in the dense forests beyond and owls awake and lively in their secluded homes. Cicero grew nervous with the silence, biting his lip to remain quiet though the situation begged him to speak. The quiet hum of encroaching, deafening silence clawed at his mind, memories of his past in Cyrodiil, of his loneliness, his solitude.

He had to speak.

But before he could utter a single word Lour'ek ducked with an alarmed gasp as an owl swooped swiftly down from the treetops above them, the squeak of a mouse heard thereafter. Cicero guffawed unabashedly at her, his grin full of joy at her startled face. "Silly Elf. An owl wouldn't want you. You've got no meat on your bones." He prodded, his eyes curved in amusement. Embarrassed, she crossed her arms over her chest, her lips puckered.

"Very funny." Lour'ek retorted.

"Cicero is a fool, after all. Jokes and jests are my specialty." He responded, his hand at his chest proudly, his head held high.

"You falling in that puddle earlier was pretty funny, then, too, huh?" she teased, her smile coy.

Cicero's face faltered, his shoulders high around his ears defensively. "_Of course it was_." He mumbled quietly, the seat of his britches still slightly damp under the fur cloak she'd given him. "But it doesn't compare to the Little Elf's 'make-up'. Too much mud can ruin a pretty face."

"Alright. Alright." She tried, attempting to make the situation a little less awkward, a tension between them heavy and suffocating, merely awaiting a spark to ignite it.

"So serious, Lour'ek?" he asked, using her full name, knowing well its effect. It was a bizarre noise from him, a word she wished she hadn't heard come from his mouth. Her face softened, vexed at his change in tone, his head bowed to stare out from under the ridge of his brow, his lips tilted in a one sided grin.

Cicero's teeth flashed against the light of the Secunda, his smile jovial. "Like Cicero said. He's good at jokes." His chest rose and fell with a hearty laugh, his hand stretched out to push against her shoulder.

A faint glow appeared on the path ahead, several orbs of light aligned on the sides of the road. Lanterns, their flames bright and alive, their cages stained a deep black, guided them through the fogged shadows, the village of Falkreath just down the road. "Cicero can't go any further." The jester pouted, his wagon stopped fully with a slight pull to his reins.

"It's fine. Thank you, Cicero." Lour'ek stood from the bench, her bottom sore, and went to jump from the wagon without another word. But she stopped, her eyes closed with a huff, her chest tight as though she needed to say more to the man who just helped her.

She turned back to him, only to find his eyes expectant. She bowed slightly and placed a soft kiss to his forehead, "Thank you." She emphasized. "But try not to break down again."

The Half-Elf hopped from the wagon, her legs bent to break her fall, and turned to him again. Despite the awkwardness of their ride Lour'ek was grateful for his help, although she could have easily gone without the fool's stares.

Cicero clung at the front of his wagon to watch her make her way down the road. "Little Elf!" He cried out before the thought to stay silent crossed his mind, his hand instinctively at his mouth. She turned to him, hardly twenty feet betwixt them. "Um…" he paused, his mind blank after his sudden outburst, "…Never-mind." He finished quietly, his eyes upon her as she passed slowly into Falkreath under the stone arch of the Guards' watch.

Lour'ek sat largely alone at the bar in the Dead Man's Drink, the tavern dark as any other would be, its patrons overly loud and excited for that particular time of night. To her right, her newest conversation partner sat. Relaxed with her ale, she spoke lightly with them, from her travels and journeys from hold to hold, of her dealings with the many Jarls, to the beasts she'd encountered, their attention rapt on her stories. The Shivering Isles and Oblivion Crisis, though, were left from her train of thought- her life in Skyrim all anyone needed to know of her.

But they continued on when she stopped to breathe, telling of their daring escape from Helgen not far to the east, of the rise of dragons- thought long dead- once more in Skyrim. Lour'ek listened intently, the thought of dragons in her home a frightening prospect. Scaled wings and breath of fire and ice, a truly powerful force to be reckoned with.

The last dragon Lour'ek was aware of was the Avatar of Akatosh- Martin Septim's sacrifice. But she remained silent on her thoughts, the past best left where it belonged.

Tankards soon refilled around them, their bellies full to bursting, their faces bright and jovial.

The door to the tavern opened to the hustle and bustle of the patrons within, the bar-goers gathered around a singing bard, his lute a melodious, hypnotic instrument, his voice a beautiful tenor. From across the room the newcomer spied the Half-Elf and her newest companion, their approach upon her swift.

A tap came to the overly large pauldron on her shoulder, her head turned in the direction from which it came, only to find no one beside her. She turned her head in the opposite direction to find the amused fool, Cicero, standing about, a Cheshire grin adorning his blushing features. He stood, at the very most, three inches from her. "Oldest trick in the book!" he mused, tapping at her shoulder again.

"Oh. Cicero." She forced herself to say through a slur, her lips a faux smile, her shoulders rolled at the fool's prods. "Wasn't expecting to see you again. At least, not so soon." Lour'ek forced a breathless laugh and hunched forward across the bar as Cicero took the empty seat next to her.

She looked to her newly acquired friend beside her, her brows knitted as she nodded in the jester's direction over her shoulder. "In fact…" she began tiredly, her hand at her hair, "I think I'm going to turn in for the night."

Lour'ek sat her empty stein on the bar and stood from her stool, appearing a foot taller for a split second before settling on the floor with a huff. "I trust you can walk yourself back, Cicero?"

Cicero sat bewildered at her words, her flight from him not unnoticed. He then stood suddenly, and nearly tripped as he jumped from his seat in a rush. Lour'ek looked to him oddly and walked backwards toward the door of her room, a quaint cubicle she'd rented after her delivery. The floorboards creaked underfoot, the bar's owner watching as the Fool followed after her. "Humble Cicero will be fine, Little Elf! Just fine! Never-mind the fact the snow has once again turned to rain, and I'm likely to trip and bust my head on a rock! Cicero will be just-"

Lour'ek slammed the door in his face, locking it firmly behind her. "—fine." The fool finished at the rough grain of the door, lowering his arms to his sides to slap against his britches. His face pulled into a quasi-frown, his hands clenched at his sides. The bartender behind the counter only laughed at the Fool of Hearts, pity for the man lost as he returned to his duties.

**ooo**

**Next Chapter:**

**The Madness of Spirits**


	4. Madness of Spirits

_Sorry about taking so long with updating this story. I had the most horrible block when it came to this chapter, so bear with me. Haha._**  
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**The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim**

**Fool of Madness: Chapter 4**

**Madness of Spirits**

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_Not a sign of him could be found. Not a trace of the MadGod was seen, from his throne room to his bedchamber, a thought that drove the Half-Elf understandably mad. All that remained in that grand atrium, the silence thick in the air that once flickered with life, was an empty throne. Lour'ek ignored the lack of sound, forgot the quiet trickle of water that flowed from one end of the room to the other, the roar of the dual coloured flames on either side of her._

_She turned abruptly on her heel and swung into another portion of the palace, its walls bright and lined with colourful tapestries, the air warm and fragrant._

_Thadon, Duke of Mania, sat lofty upon his cushioned seat at the head of the grandiose dining table, several others seated around its considerable length to accompany him at his mid-day feast._

_Haskill sat amongst them, no food laid before him on the table, a thin finger wrapped about the handle of a small, delicate tea cup, its contents warm and thick with a wisp of steam._

_A book poised on his lap, his legs loosely crossed, Haskill hadn't looked up from his light read as Lour'ek approached him, clambered up and across the table with more than a hint of agitation in her step. Thadon merely looked on with a wide grin, his amusement evident. "Where is he?" She asked._

_Haskill let a half smirk cross his face, his brows raised as he came upon a rather interesting portion of text, his forehead wrinkled as he read onward. "I'm afraid my lips are sealed, Thane." He replied with a simple turn of his page, his tea cup finding its way to his lips after he bent forward to fetch it. The contents within never seemed to lessen even as he drank, a curious oddity with which Lour'ek never became accustomed._

_Thadon chortled loudly in his seat, his hands drawn under his chin to peer on with considerable interest. Lour'ek looked to him and noticed the goblet within his reach, half filled with a bizarre emerald green liquid, his cheeks flushed and eyes jovial. "Yours last night, however, were not, dear Thane!" he exclaimed._

_Lour'ek's cheeks lit up with a burning heat, her embarrassment almost palpable. Her mouth sat agape as she breathed slowly in and out, her tongue dry in the warm air of the dining hall. "Really!" Thadon continued, "I mean, certainly I enjoy a good roll in the hay from time to time, but you two ought to learn to quiet down a bit."_

_The Half-Elf ignored the growing smirk on the Chamberlain's cheeks as she stomped down the long expanse of the table, the china and silverware victims to her onslaught. "You…" She managed to stammer through white-hot anger, her finger extended against the tip of Thadon's nose. He grinned, his crown lopsided on his brow, his golden skin a beautiful amber against the bright red of his cheeks. "…will never mention that. Ever." Lour'ek threatened, pushing against his nose until it became but a button on his face._

_"He hadn't need to, of course." Haskill continued behind her, his eyes a lazy stare, "When the entirety of the palace already knows."_

_Lour'ek blushed furiously at his words and wiped away the tears that gathered at the corners of her eyes. In a fit of unparalleled anger she stood fully and kicked from the table a cast iron kettle, the pain in her foot evident across her visage as she leapt away, down to the floor._

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_Lour'ek trekked, no, stomped down the outer border of the southern tip of the Isles, along the MadGod's Boot, the leaves on the ground torn and mashed by her violent kicks as she shuffled forward. All day she had searched for Lord Sheogorath, searched and listened, waited to hear that dramatic howl of laughter or ill-placed joke. _

_Further down the path, several minutes after Lour'ek finally managed to calm herself, she spied the MadGod, his gait leisurely and relaxed, his cane in tune with each of his steps._

_The opportunity to catch her lord by surprise had arrived. _

_Lour'ek ducked away into a thick pile of leaves hidden beside a thicket of tall grass, fully covered under the freshly fallen brush. As Sheogorath grew near she leapt from the leaves, leaving the refuge of her pile to pounce upon him. _

_A swift knock came to the top of her head, the handle of Sheogorath's cane popping against her noggin. She fell to the ground on the seat of her pants and clasped at the lump swelling atop her head, her face hot and temples pounding. _

"_Well now, Little Elf!" Sheogorath exclaimed with the tap of his boot at her knee, "What are ye up to?" He proceeded to prod at her cheek with his cane, the eyeball on the handle swiveling to stare at her, just as inquisitive as its master. _

_Lour'ek sprang forward from the ground, her eyes narrowed as she stood before him, her short stature barely up the MadGod's chin, her finger pointed into his chest. "You told me you were going to meet me this morning." _

_Sheogorath raised his chin in amused defiance, his Cheshire smile wide. He pat her on the head gingerly, as though the touch would quell the ire brewed in the Half-Elf's belly. But she swatted his hand away with the flush of her cheeks, her lips drawn into a thin line. _

"_**My realm. My rules."**_

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Lour'ek awoke to the comforting warmth of her bed in the Dead Man's Drink, her slumber without relaxation or dreams.

Gathering her belongings, she rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, the burning sensation- regardless of whether her eyes were open or closed- remaining. Her ale addled mind from the night prior leaving a dull, painful throb at the front of her head.

Prying open the door to her room she waddled out into the intense heat of the bar, the hearth full of life and fury, the flames a vibrant orange hue. From her pack she pulled a quasi-stale loaf of potato bread, the semi-sweet flavour fresh against the dryness of her tongue.

From behind the counter, an older woman peered up at her, her face brightened considerably at the sight of the Half-Elf. She trudged out from behind the counter and toward Lour'ek- determined and smiling, a small parcel in her hand.

Quietly, Lour'ek munched away upon the edge of the stone hearth, the heat soaked through the back plate of her cuirass, dark circles under her sunken eyes. "Excuse me?" the older woman asked of her, the courier's heavily laden eyes trained on her slowly. "Um…" she tried, the parcel hidden well behind her back. Lour'ek continued to chew away at her food without pause, but backed away instinctively as the barmaid pulled forth the hidden item at her back.

She stared incredulously at the barmaid, her jaw stopped mid-chew to grab at the delicate flower now presented before her. "A man. He told me to give this to you. To the 'surly, emerald-eyed, Little Elf.' I take it that's you, then?" The barmaid laughed at Lour'ek's face, her fingers wrapped around the single nightshade, swallowing the hard bread in her throat.

"What did he look like?" Lour'ek asked, her cheeks stuffed with food, her voice muffled.

"A strange man." The barmaid answered quickly and wrung at her apron as though the thought bewildered her, "I'd never seen a jester in Skyrim before he showed up. Funny enough, seemed genuinely interested, if you ask me." Lour'ek feigned a smile and finished off her bread in silence, the nightshade beside her on the stonework. She contemplated throwing it to the fire, but decided against it quickly.

Cicero had done no wrong to her, made no advance on her person with the exception of the single flower- which even then she thought of as nothing more than a token of thanks- and hadn't regarded her with a demeaning glance as many did at her half-elven heritage.

Instead, she plucked it from the stone and placed the freshly cut stem behind her ear, the bright violet colour still full of life- cut that morning, she guessed.

The cool fog of the morning settled against her face as she stepped out into Falkreath, a fresh scent tantilising her senses. Lour'ek breathed in heavily to savour the crispness, her lungs filled and mind at ease. Though beautiful, the mornings of Skyrim could never compare to the warm serenity of Cyrodiil's south, against the docks of Anvil, and on the plains around the Imperial City.

Stepping from the stoop of the Inn and onto the path, her cloak bundled atop her back, sitting at the top of her satchel. A rustle in the bush beside the bannister went unnoticed as she went to adjust the straps of her bag, a two horned hat poked out from behind the leaves. Its bright orange and black leather stood vivid against the green of the bush covering him, but the amber eyes of Cicero glanced out from behind the wood handling of the Inn.

His gaze fell to the purple flower placed behind Lour'ek's ear, and his smile went wide. Cicero chortled at the sight, try as he might to remain quiet, his eyes forever on Lour'ek's person as she began her long trek back to Whiterun.

Cicero popped out from behind the security of the foliage, of the flora that stuck at his clothes with barbs and thorns, and pulled his hat from his head swiftly, the leaves stuck to its surface removed with a few quick shakes- the vines and brambles having left small, red lines on his already reddened cheeks. He rubbed at his nose and deposited his hat lopsidedly on his auburn, tangled locks, and stood pleased with the sight of the Half-Elf and his flower.

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_Upon the hills encompassing New Sheoth, the evening sun low in the sky, Lour'ek and Lord Sheogorath lounged, the atmosphere "horribly wonderful" as the MadGod so loved to describe it. The Half-Elf laid beside the Daedric Prince with her arms steadied under her head, her cuirass and gauntlets piled at her feet and her tabard loose around her neck. Sheogorath sat in his usual garb, his cane across his stomach and his head, unsurprisingly, against a rock- curious as it was, even the rock could have been soft. It was, after all, his realm- his rules. _

_No words had been exchanged between them for many minutes, the warm air of the sea brushing against them, the finely oiled bristles of the MadGod's beard rustling about in the gentle gale. _

_Lour'ek sidled closer to him and prodded at his leg with her boot, but received no reaction. Instead of giving up, she sat up and positioned herself on her shins and pushed at his side, "Sheo." She tried, but he did not budge, eyes still closed and his hands laid out near his cane. "Sheo." Lour'ek tried more forcefully._

_Nothing. _

"_Lord Sheogorath." She finished, her hands splayed at his chest, patting at the soft curves of his cravat. _

_One cat slit eye cracked open to glance at his thane, his face cracking into a one-sided grin. "Yes, Little Elf?" he questioned, amused at her dour glare. Lour'ek rolled her eyes and leaned heavily against his chest, her nostrils flared in annoyance. _

"_About this 'Thane Business'… how 'bout we make a deal?"_

_Sheogorath's eyes opened fully at her words, his pupils dilated in interest. He raised a hand and squeezed at her cheek until it reddened, her other flushed a bright red as though to mirror its twin. _

"_What did ye have in mind?"_

_Lour'ek shifted her weight and leaned her forearms across his chest, an amused smile still spread wide on his lips. "In exchange for…" she looked around for a moment, the right words at the back of her mind, "In exchange for my eternal servitude as your Thane, would you be able to…"_

"_Give you immortality? Eternal Youth? Longer hair?" he flicked at her cropped locks, anything and everything an annoyance to the Half-Elf. "You mortals are always lookin' for the same thing! So unoriginal! Don't ye know better than to make a deal with a Daedric Prince?"_

"_Sheo, I don't care!" Lour'ek admitted, grabbing at his cravat to pull him closer to her, his grin forever present. "I'd give anything! I just…" her grip on his loosened, and she lowered her head to rest against his chest, "I just don't know how long I'll live with my half-blood, and that thought…" she choked on her words, "…scares me." His dual coloured lapels wrinkled under her hands, her nose burning with approaching tears, her face and neck hot._

_A deep chuckle escaped Sheogorath's chest, the vibrations coursing through her head, a low rumble like thunder. Lour'ek looked up, eyes wide and glossy, the MadGod's flicking at her ear, rattling her earring._

"_**Anything?"**_

**00000**_**  
><strong>_

**NEXT CHAPTER:**

**A MAD TEA PARTY**


	5. A Mad Tea Party

**Sorry about not updating this in so long. I've just been uber busy with two jobs and school, the Avengers took over my life for a while... well, more than it usually did, but hey. **

**000  
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The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim

Fool of Madness: Chapter 5

A Mad Tea Party

**000**

Several days passed under a sunless sky, the heavens rampant with storms of havoc, rain, and snow, on and off through the day and all hours of the night. Lour'ek sat lazily at the Bannered Mare, her second stein at her fingertips, her money purse ¾ it was the day prior. She had spent her off days huddled away in the warm shadows of the local inn and bar, drinking away whatever stress lay on her shoulders.

Upon such an evening, the door to the tavern flew open to the pouring rain and the darkened profiles of two figures. Their clothes soaked and frostbitten, they entered, their expressions worn and weary. Lour'ek, like the many others found in the Bannered Mare, paid them no mind and she laid her head against the back of her chair at the hearth.

The heat of the flames bit at her boots, cracked the leather and warmed the skin beneath, her nose cold underneath her hand. Her eyes glazed at the sight of the dancing fire at her boots, small sparkles of light scattering across her vision as she realised she stared far too long.

The two figures strode across the room toward the bar, one of the travelers immediately plopping himself onto a barstool to stare patiently at the barmaid. A high tenor rung out, the man's voice amusingly chirpy, scaring the barmaid as she had her back turned to him.

Lour'ek choked wildly on her ale, thrown into a fit of painful coughs, and in her chair she clambered to look over the backrest at the newest purveyors to the warm inn. A crop of auburn tangles stuck out from a two-horned jester's hat, a traveling cloak concealing the rest of their garb from Skyrim's unwelcoming weather.

Lour'ek quickly turned around to face the hearth, only to earn the gaze of an interested and rather large Dunmer who so obviously had been staring at her backside. Normally, such an act she would have considered playful, but at the moment she pulled her lips taut and sneered.

Cicero spun and scanned the inn lazily, for he had been near the edge of Whiterun several days ago, though never inside the quaint town. It was comfortable, its people mostly inviting (a tad wary of his appearance), and its climate moderate considering its central position in Skyrim. His companion, however, garbed head-to-toe in darkened earth colours, their boots laden with the mud of the road, arranged a room for their stay – their reasons in Whiterun, especially after the Fool of Heart's travel to Falkreath not long ago, suspicious.

Cicero continued to glance around until his sights landed on an ash blonde crop of hair, oddly angled ears protruding from their short locks. The fool smiled a Cheshire grin and sauntered his way around the hearth. His cloak dripped large droplets of rain and mud on the slat flooring, swaying this way and that to match his gait. He skipped almost, earning the stares of quite a few goers to the inn. They looked at him slack-jawed, through half-drunken eyes amazed at the sight of what seemed to be a jester in the harsh lands of Skyrim.

His copper eyes trained on the not-so-stealthy Lour'ek, Cicero stood to her back, slightly hovering over top her. Suddenly, the lovelorn Dunmer realised the Half-Elf's dismay, and stared unabashedly at the mischievous jester.

The thin chain hanging from Lour'ek's left ear was a dead giveaway, and his smile grew only wider. Cicero bent forward, the points of his hat tickling his cheeks, and flicked the chain with a gloved finger.

Yelping in surprise, Lour'ek leapt from her chair and careened into the chest of an older Nord who'd been walking to an open seat. He raised his bottle high above his head at the Half-Elf's drunken antics and pushed past her to continue on his way.

Upon spying the Fool of Hearts standing coyly behind her seat, Lour'ek strode forward and slammed the base of her now empty stein against the soft fabric of Cicero's head. He elicited a pained squeal and grasped at the back of the seat for support, his hand clutched at the top of his head. "Ow!" he whimpered, "What did I do?!"

His narrowed eyes traveled upwards to the stern visage of the once-thane, a nervous smile etched across his cheeks. His brows lowered woefully, aware of the hole being burned into him.

"If I didn't know better, _Cicero_," Lour'ek began, and crossed her arms loosely, "I'd say you were following me…" with a hand on her elbow and her stein gripped tightly, she studied the jester, his cheeks a brilliant red.

"Me?!" Cicero scoffed, feigning offense. He let a few staggered breaths escape him before he stood tall, a laugh on his lips. "Oh no, Little Elf, I think it is **you** who is following Poor Cicero!"

There it was… that damnable nickname. "Little Elf, this…", "Little Elf, that…". If only someone other than a supposed madman would utter that pet name.

Lour'ek cringed at the name and bit her lip. She leaned forward and put the whole of her weight on the arms of her chair. The Dunmer at her back once again refused to remove his eyes from her rear, up until the moment he noticed not only the scowl of the Half-Elf, but the dangerous glare of the Fool of Hearts. Sheepishly, he slunk away from his chair to another corner of the inn, and at last Lour'ek was alone with Cicero.

"Don't call me that, please." She asked, an image of the Daedric MadGod flashing to her mind. This request, however, didn't immediately compute with the cross jester, and his gaze wandered across the contours of Lour'ek's face. His eyes twitched about for any sign the Half-Elf jested, but found none.

The leather of his gloves groaned as he clapped his palms together and wrung. "Did you receive Cicero's gift?" he asked innocently enough, ignoring her demand.

Lour'ek was entirely prepared to continue down the long, and now far longer list of things she found terribly annoying that night, but stopped short. A single nightshade sat on her nightstand in her room in Dragonsreach, welcomed by a small stone vase imported from the folk of Solstheim. Such a bizarre gift, though lovely and quite deadly, deserved an equally strange home.

A pang of guilt ate at her chest, and Lour'ek's shoulders sunk. "I… yes." She backed away, ashamed for treating the jester so, the very man who'd taken it upon himself to ferry her to Falkreath. "…Thank you. It was very… thoughtful."

Cicero's cheeks shone a brighter red than normal, and a lopsided grin covered his lips. "What **_are_** you doing here, though?" she continued after a long pause. "I thought you had to be in Falkreath. Seemed pretty important."

Cicero stood tall unconsciously, almost on edge at the line of Lour'ek's questioning. "I could ask **_you_** the same thing!" he retorted defensively, and tightened the brooch of his cloak, keeping his fingers away from the overly inviting draw of his dagger.

"I **live** here." Lour'ek answered, her brows raised, "I had to collect my payment from the Jarl for my services."

Cicero seemed to babble for a moment, his mouth opening and shutting like a fished mountain bass. "Ah… _of course_." Was all he could manage in his embarrassment. "Still doesn't answer as to why _you're_ here. Friend of yours," she nodded to the figure with whom Cicero arrived, "traveling with you? Must be important."

Nervously, Cicero laughed and walked around the chair. Placing his hands on Lour'ek's shoulders, he pushed her forward in front of him, around the lively hearth. "How about a drink? Something to… _keep the edge off._"

Lour'ek soon found herself in the most interesting of company. Cicero and his companion, as well as Farkas and Vilkas, both of whom showed up a half hour later after the Jester's arrival, and she herself seated between the two large, far larger than Cicero, Nordic warriors.

The ale flowed heavily across the table through the night, song and dance heard throughout the Bannered Mare. Stories were shared, of great battles the Companions fought, and memories of Cyrodiil both Lour'ek and Cicero were more than willing to talk about, and slowly but surely a fog covered the mind of the Half-Elf.

Her thoughts turned away from the present, past, and future all at once, until at last no thoughts pervaded her.

**000**

A loud ringing, like the sound of a temple bell, thundered through an immense fog, the warm dew suspended in the air cradling the slumbering Half-Elf.

High above an outcrop of rock and overgrown, but certainly dry and nearly dead, grass, slept Lour'ek, seated on a blackened branch on a most strange tree.

Such a tree could not be found in any other realm or dimension save for the Shivering isles, its beautiful, natural luminescence brightening the fog like a trusted lantern. Lour'ek's nose twitched at the loud rings that followed, and slowly but surely her eyes opened to a gray miasma.

Disillusioned, she stumbled from her perch and careened toward the distant ground, all too prepared for the shock that awaited her. Her arms raised in a futile attempt to shield her head, but found that she need not worry. A moment later, the ground met her, but none too harshly. In fact, Lour'ek looked about puzzled as she sat unharmed on the thicket, her head popping out from the overgrown grass.

"I've really got to stop drinking so much… that'll be my next resolution." She mused to herself with a hand to her temple.

Lour'ek looked to the sky, if only to see the midnight aurora that hovered through the ether of Skyrim, or perhaps the swirls of purples, greens, and golds like splattered paint in the heavens of the Shivering Isles. However, she saw neither.

A dim, gray nothing was all that lay in every which direction: left, right, forwards, backwards, up, and if possible, and surely it was when it involved a certain Daedra, down.

On shaky legs the Half-Elf stood and dared to find her balance. "Where in Oblivion am I?" she asked herself aloud, sure she was alone in the eerie quiet of the fog. The silence that followed as Lour'ek began a slow trek along a dirt and gravel path was unnatural. No birds sung or flapped their wings in an attempt to escape her presence. No crickets chirped and no wind blew through the dead grass.

Lour'ek could barely hear her own footsteps along the rough road, and what she did hear she did not expect.

It seemed ages she wandered through the thick blanket, until there came a strange light. A small glow in the distance, like that of a firefly, shone through the fog, and Lour'ek found herself compelled unconsciously toward it. At first she walked, but her pace soon quickened.

She sped up, from a walk, to a jog, and finally to a laboured sprint, the glow coming ever nearer.

And suddenly, Lour'ek broke through the fog into a large clear pocket. The space was considerable, and within it sat a large dining table. Candelabras adorned the table thrice, one at each end and one in the centre, a grand feast laid out for awaiting company. Already the seats, all but two, were filled with the strangest of fellows, none of whom Lour'ek recognised, nor did she care to either.

The dining company turned in their seats to face her, all unenthused by her appearance as though she were a late guest, far more late than what could be considered fashionable.

"Little Elf! Glad ye could make it!" An all-too familiar voice laughed behind Lour'ek, a hand grabbing at the rough fabric of her shirt. Her head spun so quickly, any other time it would have snapped her neck, and she faced the Daedric Prince at her back…

**None other than Lord Sheogorath. **

Not the imposter who currently sat on his throne, that Champion of Cyrodiil gone mad with the power of a Daedra (mostly, of course), but the true Sheogorath. Those cat-like eyes, golden and ebon all the same, that stark hair of silver and beard to match, and a genuine smile, a tricky grin that spelt mischief.

"Sheo?" Lour'ek managed to gasp before forcefully being moved forward, toward the table. Sheogorath urged her toward an open seat on the opposite side of the table, right beside the most elegantly designed chair – the MadGod's no doubt.

"Of course, Little Elf! Ye seem shocked to see me. What have ye been up to?" His hands pushed against the small of her back, pushing her forward awkwardly and most certainly uncomfortably in front of the other guests.

"I, uh…" Lour'ek managed to stammer past the judgmental looks from the others. Sheogorath all but gently pushed her in her seat, and sat down beside her without acknowledging her stuttering reply. "Nothing other… than being **_your_** thane, I suppose." She worded carefully.

"Nevermind that!" Sheogorath began and silenced her with a waving hand. "Meet our guests! First, but who should certainly be last! Pelagius the Third! The Mad Emperor. Well," he looked to Lour'ek for confirmation, "Not as mad as me, hmm?"

"Definitely not…" Lour'ek whispered out.

"Bah! But we can't forget Potema! Lovely Wolf Queen. Bit of a bite, though! Haha!" he nudged her in the arm with his elbow, jostling her in her seat. "And our other Little Elf, though not my 'favourite' Little One, Glarthir." Lour'ek feigned a smile, nervous and unused to such antics after such a long time away from Lord Sheogorath.

Glarthir's eyes bugged wide, his hands spasmodic and twitchy. He muttered under his breath a paranoid rant concerning the ever watchful eyes of his neighbours, and paid no mind to the Half-Elf.

"Oh, this is one of my favourites," Sheogorath turned Lour'ek's head with his hand atop her short hair, to a dark garbed man, a powerful dread radiating from every fiber of his being. "Say 'hello' to Mathieu Bellamont. Borrowin' him from Sithis at the moment. Didn't ask, but then again, how do you?!"

Sheogorath's golden eyes shot to the quiet Lour'ek, who was still far too shocked to comprehend the madness around her, to answer the MadGod's stare. "How long has it been, Little Elf?" he inquired and flicked at her chin with his finger, "One, two hundred years?"

"I lost track, Sheo…" which was a terrible lie, for Lour'ek could calculate to the day "how long it had been".

He continued to stare at her for a few short seconds before a raspberry on his lips broke the silence. "Anywho! I'm throwin' this party on account of… well," he stood from his seat and raised what appeared to be a bottle of Sujamma, "I'm returnin' to the Isles! After this vacation of mine—"

"Vacation?" Lour'ek spoke up, and felt the intensity of all their eyes upon her, Sheogorath's in particular. "I thought you had become Jyggalag! I thought you'd left the Shivering Isles!" she stood from her chair, still far shorter than the MadGod, only to his shoulder, and stared upwards at the neutral look on Sheogorath's visage. "You expect me to believe this is something more than some drunken dream, Sheo?"

Sheogorath stood deathly quiet for a time and turned on his heel to face her. Finally, a hearty laugh escaped him and he threw an arm over Lour'ek's shoulder. "Always the kidder, aren't ye?! Little Elf, you know my realm is not the one of dreams. Not true, but at the same time entirely true. Understand?" he pulled her close, pinning her to his side. "Good! A toast! To my return!" he took a long swig of Sujamma before passing it to Lour'ek, the table alive with talkative conversation.

Sheogorath sat down without another word, until he noticed Lour'ek had yet to sit, and the bottle remained stationary in her hands. He did not bother to disturb the banter of the other guests as they pecked at the food laid before them, and pulled at the back of Lour'ek shirt. She sat down on the arm of his chair, but refused to look to him, her eyes trained on the bottle in her hands. "Drink up, Little Elf! It's disrespectful to not drink at a toast."

"I've had enough to drink tonight, believe me." She sighed, and leaned against the back of Sheogorath's chair.

"Enough is never enough! The more the merrier, or drunk-er. Or something." He shrugged his shoulders and positioned himself in his chair so he brushed against Lour'ek's arm, the bristles of his beard tickling her. "You should tell ol' Haskill first. I bet he'll find it a hoot. And my champion, too, since they'll be out of a job soon." A wide smile spread across his eyes, expecting _his_ Half-Elf to be as joyous as he.

Lour'ek, however, was not, and she stared into the dark, amber liquid of her drink.

Sheogorath laced a hand around her arm and squeezed somewhat, "Ye seem mighty… **concerned** about something, Little Elf."

Lour'ek rocked back when she realised the MadGod had moved closer, if such a thing were possible, almost inspecting her. "Just… It's nothing, Sheo. Had a lot to drink. Nothing feels quite right."

His golden and ebon eyes narrowed, "Really now?" he began to laugh, deep in his chest like a drum, sitting back in a flash. "Ye were always a funny one! My favourite funny one! My favourite, usually hostile, though now not so much, temperamental, quiverin', all-too-willin'-to-please, funny one! **MY** Little Elf!" he jingled the chain hung from her left ear, "Ain't that right?"

After so long away from his presence, the words felt alien and odd where they normally would have made her laugh, her skin uncomfortable. Slowly, she slid down into her chair from her small perch and settled in the plush cushions.

Everything felt like a repeat, like things from the realm of reality, all the small mannerisms Cicero displayed that evening, were slowly sinking into her subconscious. The odd touches, the boisterous yells, the maddening… _madness_ of it all.

Lour'ek shook slightly in her seat and held tightly to the neck of the bottle in her hand, the party at Sheogorath's table paying no mind to her.

All but one.

"I've seen that look before." The man to her right whispered, all too quietly.

The Half-Elf, at first, did not register his words, but soon she realised that no one had answered. She slowly looked to the darkly dressed man, his face sunken and shadowed, his eyes ever more so under the shroud of his deep hood.

"There's a fear in your eyes. You're afraid to tell your Lord what is amiss." Mathieu Bellamont addressed her, his hands folded on the table, his food untouched.

Lour'ek locked eyes with the older fellow, but switched between his hands and his face. "He spoke of you before your arrival. His 'more than thane'. A plaything." Lour'ek's face fell at his words- his lies.

She scowled at his grievous remarks and scoffed, her hand tighter around the neck of the bottle. "And you would know, how?" Lour'ek retorted bravely, Sheogorath's attention on bothering Glarthir from afar.

"He told us much. You two were…" he took a long breath, hollow and snake-like, "_intimate_, I take it? From the way he spoke of you—"

"He didn't tell you all, so don't you dare assume you know anything." She hissed, aggravated.

"Then tell him why you fear so wonderfully. What pulls your mind into that dark recess?" Finally, Bellamont faced away from Lour'ek and began to eat his meal silently as though they never spoke to one another.

"Little Elf!" Sheogorath called to her, her attention literally spinning toward him in reply. "I want ye to tell Haskill and my Champion of my return! Ye seem to look like ye've forgotten already what I told ye." He pulled her close once more, his cheek pressed firmly into the top of her head. "Prepare the Isles! Festivities! Music! Feasts! Cheese Wheels and Lettuce Hats! Lettuce Wheels and Cheese Hats! Lettuce Cheese and Wheel Hats!" he whisked his hand as though the grandeur laid before them. "Buy yourself a dress, and then wear a suit instead! Give Haskill the dress. He can wear it! He always was a snappy dresser, I'll give him that."

Sheogorath released her and leaned his cheek in his palm, "Go ahead, then. Take a drink, in my honour." His eyes curved playfully, "Unless you're afraid?"

Lour'ek's thoughts went to Mathieu Bellamont, whose gaze she could feel boring into her. The Half-Elf glanced down into the amber liquid once more, and at last took a deep swig.

Her eyes shut at the bitter and simultaneously sweet taste, and her head began to spin.

"To your return." Lour'ek managed before her eyes crossed and she tilted forward, darkness claiming her.

**000**

**NEXT CHAPTER:**

**SORCERY**


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